


Resuscitate

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Car Sex, Desk Sex, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Rough Sex, Time Skips, Topping from the Bottom, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-27 16:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12085173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "The first time is rough, rushed and vicious over the top of a desk in an office emptied of its occupants by the demands of the gala continuing without them." The first, last, and after of Squalo and Xanxus's relationship.





	Resuscitate

The first time is rough, rushed and vicious over the top of a desk in an office emptied of its occupants by the demands of the gala continuing without them. The door is left ajar in their precipitous rush into the room as Xanxus’s strides stretch longer than Squalo’s and the grip of strong fingers at the back of the other’s neck force Squalo stumbling over the extra distance when he lags behind. Xanxus’s fingers inside him are rough, demanding entrance more than coaxing it, and Squalo can taste wine on the other’s tongue when Xanxus licks into his mouth with a force better suited to laying claim to unoccupied territory than to a kiss. Xanxus shrugs away the touch of Squalo’s fingers at his shoulder, and he doesn’t flinch from the contact of the scarred-over stump at Squalo’s wrist, and when he fucks into the other Squalo’s vision flares to white, as if the impact of Xanxus pushing into him is a gunshot so close he doesn’t feel the pain, only the afterimage of the explosion.

Squalo stares at the gap of light around the door while Xanxus fucks him down over the surface of the desk, one hand bruising fingerprints into Squalo’s hip and the other fisting hard against the strands of pale hair tangling at the back of his neck. Squalo’s balance is precarious, with his one good hand to hold himself upright, and Xanxus makes no attempt to reach around and offer him any kind of reciprocated pleasure; he just takes, with short, sharp thrusts to drive himself as deep into Squalo’s body as he can go, and Squalo rocks forward with each one and feels heat spiking into him like Xanxus is forcing it into him directly.

“What if someone comes in?” he asks once, hissing the words past the strain in his throat as Xanxus shoves him down over the table and prints the sweat from Squalo’s cheek down and against the documents strewn across the surface.

Xanxus barks a sound, a drag of noise so rough it’s a moment before Squalo parses it as a laugh, before he can make sense of the grating rasp as the chuckle it is. “It won’t matter,” he says, with a confidence that surges through Squalo like the grounding-out of that electricity he saw from across the distance of the courtyard, the certainty that drew him as surely as a magnet draws iron. Xanxus’s hips snap forward, his cock drives deep. “I can do anything I want.”

The way he says it -- casually, easily, like it’s a statement of fact and not an absurd claim -- is enough to leave Squalo shuddering satisfaction over the pile of documents beneath him all on its own.

 

The last time is slower, heavy and lingering but rough like it always is, as Xanxus always is. They’re in the back of the car taking them to the location for the ambush, with tinted windows for some modicum of privacy after Xanxus has told the rest of the group to leave them alone and wait until he’s finished; but it wouldn’t make a difference even if they had every member of the Varia there to watch them. Squalo doesn’t ask, this time -- he’s learned that much, by now -- and by the time Xanxus draws slick fingers out of him he already has the other’s pants undone, is already sliding in to straddle the casual sprawl of Xanxus’s thighs open beneath him on the car seat. Xanxus’s grip on his hips is easier, this time, a guide instead of a brace; it’s Squalo who clings to Xanxus’s shoulder, who loops his sword arm around the line of the other’s neck and leans in to pant against the dark of Xanxus’s hair. The air tastes like smoke, Squalo’s lips cling to the acrid bite of gunpowder, and beneath him Xanxus moves with slow certainty, tipping his hips up to met the rhythm of Squalo’s movement over him with the graceful ease of a lion stalking certain prey.

“We’re going to win,” Squalo says against Xanxus’s neck, and digs his fingers into a fist at the shoulder of the other’s jacket. “We’ll get you what’s yours, boss.”

“Of course we’ll win,” Xanxus says, relaxed even in that, like now that they’ve made it this far there’s nothing left to rattle his composure. His hand lifts from Squalo’s hip, his fingers come in and curl around the aching heat of Squalo’s cock. “Call me by my title, scum.”

“Tenth,” Squalo says, the word grating past his throat and through his gritted teeth; and Xanxus’s hand twists, and everything in Squalo’s world flashes to white for a moment of eternity.

 

Later: after the end. After the last. After years of continuing more from a lack of any other direction than real hope, after his hair has grown as long and heavy over his shoulders as the despair he carries in his chest. After the chill of water closing over him and the spill of his blood like roses in the liquid around him; after the failures, losses upon losses enough to strip away whatever magnetic north Squalo once followed, whatever purpose he once had in his life. When there’s nothing left, nothing but the weight of years draped over his shoulders and the shadows of scars frozen into tanned skin:

“I like this,” unexpected words in a familiar voice, sudden approval from an impossible source. Squalo blinks from where he’s lying across the soft of a bed, the silk of the sheets catching at the web of scars across his back and lining his shoulders, arms, crosshatching all his skin with a map to tell of those years alone, an echo in its own way of the shadows over Xanxus’s body to prove the years the other man has lost to the ice. He’s looking at Squalo’s shoulder, now, his eyes dark and fixed on the weight of the other’s hair; as Squalo stares Xanxus lifts his hand from the mattress to push at the fall of it, to shove a long lock back and over Squalo’s shoulder. “It looks good.”

Squalo gazes up at Xanxus, at the familiar lines of the other’s face unmarked by time, untouched by the last seven years except for the pattern of scars lacing across his skin. It makes Squalo feel displaced, like maybe the passage of time has only touched him, has only weighted lines into his face and length into his hair because of how heavy his isolation dragged at him. He presses his lips together and blinks hard up at Xanxus. “Boss?”

Xanxus’s eyes flicker back to Squalo’s face, his hand drops from the other’s hair. When he braces himself against it’s with a palm over Squalo’s shoulder, his fingers spread wide to hold himself up as his shoulders flex with the effort of leaning in over the other.

“My name,” he says, growling the words into a threat that heats Squalo’s spine with forgotten electricity, with the beginnings of life prickling back into a long-numb limb, phantom pains in a part he lost so long ago he hardly thinks of it now. “Shitty shark. Say it.”

Squalo presses his lips tight together and slides his hand up Xanxus’s shoulder to brace at the back of the other’s neck, to sink his fingers into the short of the other’s hair, the dark of it untouched by any sign of their lost time, the distance between them left untravelled by Xanxus while Squalo suffered through the years alone. Xanxus’s eyes narrow, his mouth sets; and Squalo takes a breath, and opens his mouth into obedience.

“Xanxus,” he says; and Xanxus’s hand tenses on the sheets, Xanxus’s hips snap forward hard, and Squalo loses the rest of his breath to a groan he didn’t know he had in him, to a surge of heat he didn’t think he would ever feel again. His hand tightens in Xanxus’s hair, his arm flexes in a futile attempt to pull the other to him; and Xanxus leans in, pressing the shadows over his chest down and against the white-lined tracery of scars across Squalo’s.

When Squalo gasps into pleasure under the heat of Xanxus’s body, the air in his lungs feels like the first he’s breathed in years.


End file.
